On A Bare Branch A Crow Is

The Journey Itself Is My Home.

Collecting All The Rains Of May The Swift Mogami River.

Poverty's Child - He Starts To Grind The Rice, And Gazes At The Moon.

Real Poetry, Is To Lead A Beautiful Life. To Live Poetry Is Better Than To Write It.

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.